Poems by Hartley Coleridge With a Memoir of his Life by his Brother. In Two Volumes |
 | I. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
|
| II. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| XLIX. |
| L. |
| LI. |
| LII. |
| LIII. |
| LIV. |
| LV. |
| LVI. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
|
|
|
|
THE BLIND MAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS LOVE. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
 | Poems by Hartley Coleridge |  |
207
THE BLIND MAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS LOVE.
There is a beauty in the mind,
That makes thee fair to me,
Sweet Mary Anne, though I am blind,
And blind I still must be.
That makes thee fair to me,
Sweet Mary Anne, though I am blind,
And blind I still must be.
I sit in darkness; but I know
If thou to me art near,
Through all my limbs I feel a glow,
A sudden gush of cheer.
If thou to me art near,
Through all my limbs I feel a glow,
A sudden gush of cheer.
Put thy least finger's smallest tip
Upon my wildest hair,
Each vein and nerve in me will skip,—
I know that thou art there.
Upon my wildest hair,
Each vein and nerve in me will skip,—
I know that thou art there.
They tell me thou art fair to see,
And of thy waist so trim;
I know thou art straight as poplar tree,
And delicately slim.
And of thy waist so trim;
I know thou art straight as poplar tree,
And delicately slim.
208
They tell me that thine eyes are black,
As black as burning coal:
I look, but find my eye-balls lack
The light that's in my soul.
As black as burning coal:
I look, but find my eye-balls lack
The light that's in my soul.
Thy hand is very soft I know—
They tell me it is white;
But it is not like the falling snow,
Because it does not bite.
They tell me it is white;
But it is not like the falling snow,
Because it does not bite.
For cold and biting are the flakes,
The melting flakes of snow,
When the blinding snow-storm overtakes
The blind men as they go.
The melting flakes of snow,
When the blinding snow-storm overtakes
The blind men as they go.
But thy hand is soft, it melts away,
And then I hear thee speak;
And ever thy words are blithe and gay,
But thy voice is smooth as thy cheek.
And then I hear thee speak;
And ever thy words are blithe and gay,
But thy voice is smooth as thy cheek.
So well I love the thought I have,
I do not wish to see;
I will live on in my darksome cave,
So thou wilt live with me.
I do not wish to see;
I will live on in my darksome cave,
So thou wilt live with me.
| Poems by Hartley Coleridge | |